5-10-15-20features artists talking about the music that made an impact on them throughout their lives, five years at a time. This edition stars 41-year-old Alex Kapranos, leader of Franz Ferdinand, whose fourth album, Right Thoughts, Right Words, Right Action*, is out now. Listen along to Kapranos' picks with this Spotify playlist.*

My dad used to play in beat groups in the 60s, so I was very privileged at a young age because I knew that music was something that human beings made, rather than something that just came out of the speaker in the corner of the room. It’s not magic, and there’s no great mystery behind it. I would hit the guitar strings, trying to make a sound while my dad held down the chords-- quite an important moment. I knew that the people who make music are just a bunch of human beings getting together with instruments. It was always in my head that I could make music.

My parents had one of those big wooden cabinets with a record player and radio built into it-- they were given it as a wedding present-- and I remember listening to the Beatles' 1962-1966 singles compilation, the Red Album. Pop music, rock music, whatever you want to call it-- it’s never been topped by those singles. They’re absolutely perfect. I've chosen the Red Album over the Blue Album (1967-1970 singles compilation) because even though I love the two different bands they represent-- the mop-tops and the guys peering through the long hair and round spectacles-- when I was five, I loved the guys with the mop-tops.

When you’re around this age, you understand music in a very pure way. You dance to it, you enjoy it, you want to sing along with it. You don’t know what bloody microphones were used, or who John Lennon is and what his politics are. It's all pop. My mother is English and my father is Greek, but I also didn’t see them as being culturally different until I hit my teens. When you’re five, you don’t question the fact that you can’t speak the same language as your grandmother-- that’s just the way it is.

After living in Sunderland, England, we moved to Scotland, where my teacher criticized me because of my English accent; I felt like an outsider because I had an Geordie accent in an Edinburgh classroom. Over the years, I came to understand the centuries of resentment that still existed in a nation that lost a war to its neighbors. There’s no desire for bloodshed, and the resentment is only located within portions of the population, but it’s definitely there.

The album that I adored at that time was Madness' Absolutely. It's the best kids' music ever. There's the vividness and energy, and the fact that they were this incredible gang that had their own way of dressing was very powerful. They felt a little bit dangerous as well. It’s not until you’re 10 that you start listening to music that your parents don’t necessarily agree with. I remember having huge fights with my mother about wearing a pair of Dr. Martens, because that’s what bad boys wore. I was like, “But I want to be a bad boy!” I didn’t want to be the soft kid-- I wanted to be the troublemaker! I didn’t really like fighting, though. I was just cheeky to my teachers. If I thought a teacher was talking shite I would say so, which would always get me into trouble. I wasn’t scared of opening up my gob.

Madness' songs contained great cultural observations of Britain. There were riots in the UK around that time, and a lot of immigrants were persecuted. I remember school desks with "NF" scrawled into them, which stood for the National Front. It was ugly. Even though I blended in because I was European, I knew I was still scrutinized because of my Greek background. What was cool about bands like Madness and the Specials was that they took influences from Jamaica and London and melded them all together. It was a great moment in British cultural history, and it yielded some pretty fucking good tunes that you can jump up and down on the sofa to when you're 10 years old. If a Madness song from that time period comes on now, it still puts me in a good mood.

My friend Andrew Conway and I used to walk to school together, talking about music and going to each others’ houses to play. He got me into Fleetwood Mac, who were hugely unfashionable at the time. It’s weird seeing how they've become this hipster band now. I have a right smile inside when I think back on how hated they were by our contemporaries at school, which is probably why we were so drawn to them. I’ve always been a little bit contrarian.

We were especially into Then Play On, which is earlier Fleetwood Mac, and I loved Peter Green’s voice. All the blues covers were fine, but the songs that he wrote were amazing. I loved “Oh Well” because it was powerful and direct but it didn’t sound like a regular song. It was just this huge long riff. I was like, “It’s not pop music, it’s not rock music-- where does this come from?” I loved how inventive it was. The lyrics fit with the alienation I felt at 15, too: "I can’t help what shape I’m in/ Can't sing, I ain’t pretty and my legs are thin.” That was me at 15. I was wishing that my voice would break so I could sing like Peter Green. [laughs]

“Oh Well” was the first song Andrew and I ever recorded. Andrew had a little Tascam cassette four-track recorder and we did a very wonky version, just the two of us. From that point onwards for a couple of years, we used to go to his room and make a racket. I owe so much to his parents-- they would bring us juice while we were making this bloody awful noise. We probably made about 15 albums worth of material around that time, but we didn’t want to play our music for other people-- it was just for us.

I wanted to study philosophy at Glasgow University, but I didn’t get in because I failed higher maths. So I found myself studying divinity at the University of Aberdeen. I found the subject fascinating and I still do, though I’m not a religious person myself. But even if you’ve rejected God, there’s still a lot you can learn from religion, and you can’t deny the spiritual urges you have within you. But I dropped out after a year because a lot of my fellow students were called to the Presbyterian Ministry in later life, so I had absolutely nothing in common with them.

Around this time, I started getting involved in the DIY punk scene in Glasgow. I was hanging around the 13th Note, where all these bands that went on to become successful played: Mogwai played their first gig in that club, and Stuart Murdoch played some Belle and Sebastian songs for the first time there, too. Another close friend from that time, RM Hubbert, whose album I just produced, introduced me to a lot of different music-- SST and West Coast punk especially-- that had a huge impact on me. The Minutemen's Double Nickels on the Dime made me think about playing the guitar in a totally different way. They made it clear that being in a band could be about something other than being a rock star. Even though their lyrics talked about a life that was unfamiliar to me, the candor in which they talked about it was very recognizable.

Here Come the Warm Jets opened up a lot of ideas for us, because suddenly it wasn’t just about punk rock anymore. That music comes from an era of prog-rock excess, and it possesses the same sonic adventurousness that prog bands were aiming for, but Here Come the Warm Jets is raw. When Eno’s playing the guitar, it sounds like he's playing it with a scrubbing brush.

I also loved how creatively agile Brian Eno was. The way that he would jump from something that feels like a 50s pop song with this wry lyric observing these women who’ve “left their hot points to rust in their kitchenettes.” For somebody who rejected lyrics, he was an amazing lyricist. When I was listening to this record a lot, it was at the tail end of Britpop, and it felt like we'd be surrounded by retrogressive music that looked to the 60s for years. Weirdly, I had to go back to the 70s to find something that was forward-looking. The sound of Here Come the Warm Jets sounded a lot more contemporary than the music that was actually being made in the 90s.

[Franz Ferdinand bassist Bob Hardy] and I worked in a kitchen-- he was a porter, washing the dishes, and I was a dessert chef. I was always waiting for the last couple to finish their meal, and he was waiting for their plates, so we’d be stuck together. We had these great discussions about what music we'd make if we were to form a hypothetical band: what our principles would be, what we'd do stage, what we would want to sing about.

Of course, we played each other the music that we loved, and the record that had the greatest impact on me was Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Bob’s always had a great love for American indie-- he introduced me to a lot of stuff that I probably wouldn’t have been drawn to myself-- and I loved the raw emotion of Jeff Mangum's vocals on that album, along with the acoustic guitars that sound like they’re being ripped through the speakers. Usually, when an acoustic guitar is recorded, the producer or engineer gives it that repellant, sparkly, saccharine sound, but the guitars on In the Aeroplane Over the Sea sound as dirty as the first Buzzcocks EP. I played "Two-Headed Boy" to somebody I was with recently who'd never heard the song before, and she started crying when she heard it. It's an emotionally brutal record.

I didn’t want to choose a record that I was on, but all the records I’ve chosen reflect how I relate to the people around me at the time. That was the first time I had gone into a studio to produce something without actually making any of the music myself, and it was such an enjoyable experience. I became really close to the Jarman brothers, and they’re still really good friends. I love the closeness of that family, the contrary creativity they possess. For me, that band represents the best of what happened in Britain around that time: There was an evolution of music and a certain type of guitar band that came to the fore. Some of that type of music was great, some not so great. But the Cribs were great. Particularly at that moment, they were a very vibrant, exciting band to be around.

The most striking piece of music I've heard recently was a performance of The Rite of Spring at London's Royal Festival Hall. It’s the most moving performance I’ve ever been to.

I went back to Greece in January with my dad for my grandmother's funeral. I hadn’t been there for a couple of years, and I really noticed how much the country is suffering. It’s in a really bad way. I watched Greece change through the 70s and 80s, and noticed how the differences between Athens and the UK slowly disappeared. But when I went back this time, it felt very different again, like it was another place.

I'm extremely un-nostalgic; when I ride my bike, I never look over my shoulder, because if I do, I’ll fall off. That’s exactly how I feel about being in my band. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the experience of making music with these three guys and I’m still thoroughly enjoying it. If I look over my shoulder too much, I’m gonna fall off. I have no intention of doing so.